


A Tree of Life

by aknightofthe7kingdoms



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Anxiety, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Author Projecting onto Crowley (Good Omens), Cold-Blooded Crowley (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Fever, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lack of Communication, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Seasonal Affective Disorder, Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, The Little Old Lady From the Flat Below
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-11-09 02:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20845862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aknightofthe7kingdoms/pseuds/aknightofthe7kingdoms
Summary: Hope deferred makes the heart sick,but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.Proverbs 13:12Crowley was certain that he wasn’t ill. He just wasn’t feeling...quite well.





	1. Chapter 1

Crowley was certain that he wasn’t ill. And even if he wasn’t certain (which he _was_, thank you very much), the idea was so very unlikely that it just didn’t warrant any further consideration. There wasn't anything glaringly wrong with him. Not really. Rather, he had an overall feeling that things weren’t quite _right_.

  
The ever-present lack of warmth that was a factor in his day-to-day existence since his Fall (excluding, of course, time spent in the vicinity of a certain bookish blonde principality who warmed a room simply by being in it) had become more bothersome in recent days. The first time he noticed it, it felt like the freshness of the air on a crisp morning in the early days of October, but in time it developed into an intermittent chill that, here and there, caused his arms to break out in gooseflesh and the occasional shudder to pass through his Earthly body.

  
This wasn't at all uncommon for Crowley, especially considering the time of year. The summer of the Nope-ocalypse had come to a relatively uneventful end and the days were getting shorter and colder as they do. And, being a cold-blooded entity living in London, one had to be resigned to a certain amount of discomfort, temperature-related and otherwise.

  
And so he went about his business, decked himself out in a stylish black leather coat[1], and opted to travel by Bentley whenever possible[2], which was a lot of the time. But not always.

  
Aziraphale was the very picture of happiness as they strolled side-by-side through the square. The angel, for all that he was more of an “indoorsy” type, fancied a walk through the park on a clear autumn day, tartan scarf wrapped around his neck and cocoa in hand, and Crowley fancied Aziraphale, so he went along willingly albeit somewhat tetchily.

  
There had been a time Before when the two of them would go centuries without laying eyes on each other, but those days were ancient history[3]. With the Arrangement, then the whole business of bringing up the boy who they thought was the Antichrist but wasn’t, and then the search for the boy who was the Antichrist but then not quite so much, it was unavoidable that they would spend an inordinate amount of time together. It was a necessity.

  
Or at least, that was part of it. Somewhere throughout the recent years, clandestine meetings had turned into social calls and the business of the day was less focused on blessings and temptations and more on Château Latour and the kind of easy conversation that flows when you’ve known someone for several millennia. And now the Arrangement was obsolete; it had been for several weeks and yet, not a day had passed when they hadn’t seen one another face to face.

  
“Isn’t it just glorious?” Aziraphale sighed. The pair made their way under a bower of ash, their leaves already changing and gleaming in the golden light of late afternoon. “It’s a pity that they will begin to fall soon when they’re so lovely.”

  
Crowley had several possibilities to choose between when it came to his reply. A sour thought rose to the surface of his mind, insisting that Aziraphale hadn’t spent nearly as much energy lamenting his Fall as he did the fall of some fucking dead leaves. Another opined that _he_ looked pretty damn glorious before he Fell too, and wouldn’t the angel like to admire his foliage?

  
The part of him that couldn’t give a toss about leaves wanted to say, ‘Oi Angel, watch this,’ as the twat who had just neglected to hold open a door for a harried-looking man pushing a double stroller suffered the misfortune of having the bottom of his rucksack inexplicably give out, sending his possessions including his smart phone and an expensive new laptop crashing to the pavement in a fantastic burst of glass fragments and shrapnel.

  
“Mm,” he agreed. He pulled his arms closer into his sides, pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.

  
“I do say!” The angel glanced fleetingly in his direction. “The Arboretum in Surrey is only an hour away or so – well, if one is driving at the posted speed limit.” Golden eyes rolled at Aziraphale’s admonishing tone. “The scenery will be magnificent this time of year. Crimson, copper, golden yellows-”

  
“Mm.”

  
“And unless I’m mistaken,” his tone suggesting that he was definitely not mistaken, “there is a quaint little tea room there. They serve the loveliest fruit scones[4].”

  
“Oh?” He thought it best to vary his responses a little lest the angel accuse him of being withdrawn, (which he was, but even so.)

  
“It would be nice to get away from the city for a day.”

  
Crowley had been pulling his arms so tightly against his body to stave off the chill that his shoulders were starting to ache with the effort. His neck was getting stiff. For all that he enjoyed listening to Aziraphale patter on about greenery and baked goods, he was looking forward to getting back to his own flat and his bed and turning himself into a demon burrito until he felt more like himself again. But who knows how long that might take? This just didn’t seem like a good time to pull another 19th century...perhaps he should set an alarm...

  
“What do you say, my dear?” asked the angel after a pause. “Up for a bit of a jaunt tomorrow morning?”

  
Well. That pulled him back to reality in a hurry. “Nghk, wuh, tomo-tomorrow?” he stammered and then silently cursed at himself.

  
"Oh!" Aziraphale looked suddenly chagrined, like he had committed a faux pas. "That is, unless you have a previous engagement, my dear...”

  
“Nuh- No, it’s- eggh,” he began eloquently. For fucks sake, he sounded like a knob. He quickly changed gears and blurted out, “Okay! Let’s do it!” with an uncharacteristic excess of enthusiasm.

  
“Oh!" Aziraphale repeated, looking a little jolted by Crowley's sudden shift in demeanor. "Well, if you’re certain. I’d hate to impose on you. Heaven knows I've taken up so much of your ti-”

  
“Yes! Calm down!” Crowley spat, more vehemently than he intended. Then, at the sight of the angel’s widened eyes he reined himself in and continued, “M’just, if I didn’t _want_ to, I would say so,” he said, putting aside the fact that he really _didn’t_ want to and the implications of that whole mess. It was more than he was ready to cope with just then.

Aziraphale was looking at him with an odd expression, like he was trying very hard not to convey any emotion at all with his face. His eyes, however, darted rapidly around Crowley's person and the demon knew that he was being evaluated.

Consciously, he unwound himself a little, hoping it didn't have the opposite impact of indicating how tightly coiled up he'd been in the first place. Now with a sway in his step, Crowley tilted his head so he could peer at Aziraphale over his sunglasses, eyes glinting in the amber light of the setting sun. “What time should I pick you up, Angel?” he asked breezily, flashing him a careless sideways grin.

  
Aziraphale seemed reassured, or at least put off prying by the demon’s rapid mood swings, and they planned to meet at 9:00 the next morning.

The Bentley wove erratically through the evening rush traffic on the way back to Mayfair, sometimes driven by the demon in its driver's seat and sometimes maneuvering of it's own accord. It took the curb with a thump as it turned onto Grosvenor to avoid getting stopped up at the lights, a mutual decision. They were both eager to get back.

It was fortunate that the car was plenty capable of finding its own way; Crowley mind felt muddled, like he'd been steadily drinking for the past several hours instead of out walking in the sunshine with Aziraphale. He chalked it up to fatigue considering he hadn't slept in weeks. A tricky thing, sleep. Once you get into the habit a body comes to rely on it like so many other vices.

Crowley felt like he could sleep forever. This wouldn't be the first time he settled in for a century long nap and the last time he wasn't just coming down off of stopping Armageddon. But sleep wasn't in the cards for him, not yet. At least, not long proper sleep like his corporation was aching for, when he was due back in Soho to pick up Aziraphale in 15 hours.

_You lied to him, _a voice inside him accused.

Crowley flinched. 'I’m a demon,' he reasoned. 'That’s what we do.'

_Not to him. Never to him. _

His hands were sweating despite the chill, making the wheel damp and slippery in his shaky grip.

_It's broken now.  
_

"_Shit,_" he growled, and then scrubbed one hand over his face. He felt tired and cold and sick to his stomach, honest to G-someone sick. He swallowed thickly and wondered if he better pull over.

The opening bars of Under Pressure began playing and Crowley gave a mirthless chuckle from behind his hand. 'Yeh," he said to the car. "That's right."

When his flat came into view, Crowley felt no small amount of relief. He parked the Bentley in its usual spot, giving the front fender a fond pat as he made his way to the lobby door. 'This is fine,' he thought. It would have to be. 

1It was a slim fitting number, shearling lined and soft as butter, and managed to be warm without looking bulky – all very important details. 

  
2The Bentley did its part to aid its demon by warming both its driver’s seat and steering wheel although it possessed none of the features that would have enabled it to do so, such was its devotion to Crowley’s well-being.   
  
3Literally. 

4They did not serve the loveliest fruit scones. The loveliest fruit scones were served by a Scottish grandmother from Trotternish. The secret is to keep the mixture cold! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how long this is going to be. I've got a rough outline but ideas keep popping into my head. It's been a very long time since I've written any fic so it's going to be rough. Critique is encouraged. And aside from that, enjoy the ride.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley felt like something precious and fragile had fallen into his hands serendipitously, something he was never meant to possess, and without the Arrangement to tether the two of them together, he was extremely wary not to hold it too tightly and crush it or loosen his grip and let it slip away.

It took a considerable time for Crowley’s corporation to warm up after he returned to his flat and for several minutes after he’d walked through the front door, he’d stalked around rubbing his hands up and down his arms, trying to conjure some warmth back into his limbs. Finally, with an inhuman growl, he stalked into the predominately unused glass enclosed shower, turned the hot water faucet to the highest settling, and stood underneath the scalding water until he felt somewhat like himself again.

Crowley’s houseplants were accustomed to their owner’s habits. For all that he was an unpredictable being they’d come to expect his long absences, constant erratic movement when he was awake, and month-long naps. His activities in the flat could be summed up in four categories; sleeping, watching T.V., tormenting the houseplants, and occasionally, when he was in a certain mood, standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom and rapidly changing his clothing and hair length with demonic miracles until he was settled on a new look.[1]

So when the houseplants heard the rattle of the largely unused water pipes and the resulting spray of water, the excitement in the air was palpable and the silence erupted into frenetic rustling. An observer would note the shifting of leaves as they turned toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, trying in vain to determine what the demon had gotten up to.

When he emerged 40 minutes later, skin flushed pink from the heat of the water and damp hair hanging limply over his face, and disappeared immediately into the bedroom, the plants were left with even more questions, but they kept those to themselves in fear of punishment.

Crowley laid awake half the night. Sleep shouldn’t have been so difficult to come by; he was certainly tired enough, but he was ill at ease and the warmth of the shower was fading fast. After an hour of tossing and turning and losing his warm spot, he’d picked up his phone with the intent of finding some boring instructional video to lull him to sleep. However, the YouTube recommendations proved to be far too interesting and he wound up falling down the rabbit hole. It was several hours before Crowley drifted off to sleep to a video titled “36 Crazy Ways to Cook Eggs.”

When his phone’s alarm sounded the next morning, his first inclination was to take the blessed thing and throw it as hard as he could through the picture window in his bedroom. Crowley reached over to the usual spot on the small table beside his bed, then lifted his head and stared at the offending empty surface. Fortunately for the phone, he’d fallen asleep with it in hand and it was now lost in the tangle of bed sheets.

_ “ _ _ Shuuut _ _ it!” _ Crowley snarled and the room immediately fell silent.[2]

He collapsed back onto the pillows and gave a long-suffering sigh. All told, he couldn’t have been asleep more than four hours and, from the pain that was already blooming behind his eyes and radiating down his neck he probably would have made out better if he hadn’t gone to sleep at all.

The view from his bedroom window was grey and bleak and the light streaming through the blind was muted. Crowley laid for several minutes, watching the dreary sky and dreading the day ahead. The very thought of walking around under those clouds, even with Aziraphale beside him, made him want to pull the blankets up over his head and stay there until things brightened up. Like May or June.

As the minutes ticked on and the window of time before he had to leave grew smaller and smaller, he became more agitated.

The problem wasn’t at all that he wasn’t looking forward to seeing the angel. It was just, Crowley felt like something precious and fragile had fallen into his hands serendipitously, something he was never meant to possess, and without the Arrangement to tether the two of them together, he was extremely wary not to hold it too tightly and crush it or loosen his grip and let it slip away. It was all very taxing.

Maybe he’d be lucky and there would be rain called for today. Then they could hang around the bookshop. He could watch the angel read and fall asleep on the dusty old couch to the sound of the drops hitting the inside of the old chimney and the regular turning of pages.

Crowley felt around in the sheets until he located his phone. There was a text from Aziraphale among his notifications,[3] reading “6:16 a.m. Good morning my dear, I hope you had a pleasant evening. I was trying to remember the name of that Pinot you said you liked that time. I think it was in Nice. Yes, it would have around the same time as all that unpleasantness in ‘44. If you happen to recall give me a ring. Otherwise I’ll see you at 9:00 and maybe we can work it out together.”

He checked the weather – grey skies all day with a high of 14°C. No rain in the forecast. He’d better get up.

After miracling himself into his clothing he waved a careless hand over his hair which immediately shifted from wild bedhead to something just as wild but deliberate looking. He checked the mirror and glanced distastefully at his eyes which were dull and red and made him look...

“Blegh.” Crowley frowned as he realized how miserable and worn down and, well, how ill he looked. He quickly fished his sunglasses out of his pocket and slid them on, improving his reflection but doing nothing to improve how shivery he felt all over. He briefly considered asking Aziraphale to come away with him to somewhere warmer for a few months, maybe Crete or Ibiza, but considering his track record when it came to asking the angel to run away with him he probably had a better chance of _ actually _ turning into an aardvark so he buried that thought along with everything else.

On his way out of the flat he growled, “don’t start with me,” as he passed the intrigued houseplants. “I’m not in the mood for your shit this morning.” The houseplants trembled politely but in truth they were more concerned than anything. Crowley hadn’t even stopped to glare at them.

1There was also one time, about 20 years back, when Crowley had come into the flat with a guitar case. The demon had played the instrument with surprising proficiency and, to the amazement of the houseplants, started singing softly about “perfect love.” The plants had been astounded by the gentle, heartfelt crooning of their demon right up until he moment he’d roared, "Bugger it all!" and the guitar burst into a ball of flames, consumed in an instant in a flash of hellfire. The plants had gone off about the incident for weeks, wondering about the identity of the “Angel” in Crowley’s song.

2Crowley’s phone knew what was good for it and was perfectly obedient. It didn’t require charging, was waterproof, and received perfect signal wherever he went. If he ever found himself on the edge of the solar system and needed to place a call, Crowley’s phone would get full bars.

3Aziraphale didn’t have a cell phone, just an antique rotary telephone he acquired a century back when phones in private residences were coming into fashion. Somehow, he’d gotten it into his mind that he could send a text by politely instructing the voice mail function on Crowley’s phone to “please take this down” and he was having none of it when Crowley tried to explain that it wasn’t supposed to work that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I will try to get the next chapter up tomorrow. Things are about to go downhill fast for our boy. Please feel free to critique.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley puts his foot in his mouth and things begin to go downhill.

The Bentley pulled up in its usual, completely illegal spot in front of A.Z. Fell and Co. a few minutes before 9:00, having made excellent time for a Thursday morning commute. Crowley loved to drive and he especially loved driving fast, so his mood was somewhat improved by the time his destination came into view despite the pain blossoming behind his eyes and the chill in the air. 

When he didn’t find Aziraphale waiting for him outside the bookstore, Crowley decided to head in and announce his arrival in his typical fashion[1]. However, when he caught a glimpse of the angel through the front window of the shop, Crowley stopped dead in his tracks. 

“Wuh? What the fu-,” Crowley started, and then quickly ducked around the corner before he could be spotted. 

The aforementioned angel was standing at the entrance to the back room, fiddling around with an ancient-looking wicker picnic hamper, which was a little odd, but the strangest thing by far was his clothing. Aziraphale had worn the same thing every day with very little variation for over a century; same jacket, waistcoat, shirt, trousers, shoes, funny little tartan bowtie. But today, for whatever reason, he’d changed things up. He was wearing a tartan patterned sweater over his shirt and topped it all off a camel wool overcoat. The bow tie remained, thankfully[2], but the usual tartan was replaced with a golden beige number. The overall look was still very much Aziraphale but more modern and casual and, according to a very unhelpful voice in his head, pretty damn hot. 

Crowley stood with his back pressed up against the wall, fingers splayed against the cold red brick. Passersby who took the time to notice him might mistake him from a criminal hiding from the authorities. Meanwhile, the demon’s mind was reeling. He wondered if the new clothes had something to do with their destination. What do people wear to an arboretum anyway? Something casual, he figured so maybe Aziraphale was just trying to fit in with the humans. Then again, fitting in was never high on the angel’s list of priorities so why should he begin worrying about it now? So many questions! 

Whatever the reason for Aziraphale’s sudden wardrobe change, Crowley knew he didn’t have time to figure it out before the angel discovered him so, in the midst of his minor panic, he looked down at his own outfit and, with a snap of his fingers, his boots became black hi-tops and his waistcoat stretched and shifted until it was a black hooded sweater with deep red lining[3]. 

“Oh, good morning Crowley!” sounded a familiar voice. Crowley spun around and came face to face with Aziraphale who was clutching the hamper in front of him in both hands. “What are you doing over there?” 

Seeing the angel up close in his new ensemble was making it quite a challenge for Crowley to organize his thoughts. He meant to say, “Good morning Angel, I was just waiting for you. Ready to go?” 

What ended up coming out of his mouth was, “Y’don’t have a baby in there, do you?” 

“Erm, no,” Aziraphale said patiently after a beat. “I was thinking it might be rather nice to finally go on that picnic we talked about.” 

Crowley blinked. “That was sixty years ago!” 

The angel shifted embarrassedly. “Well, I figured, since we’re going to be heading out of town anyway, we might as well take advantage of the opportunity!” He lifted the top of the basket, revealing an impressive variety of fare; fancy sandwiches, canapes, plump red grapes, and, of course, a bottle of pinot noir. 

Crowley learned in and peered into the basket. He’d clearly put a lot of thought into putting it all together. 

“I thought to surprise you.” Aziraphale looked particularly pleased with himself, like he did when he managed to pull off one of his crappy magic tricks. “That was the reason for the textual message I sent you this morning.” 

“Oh, right.” He meant to say something more, something conveying gratitude or acknowledging Aziraphale’s efforts, but his mind was having trouble keeping up today and he simply couldn’t find the words. 

“What do you say?” the angel said as he began to fidget, his confidence clearly beginning to wane. “Care to give it a go?” 

Crowley didn’t have the heart to point out that it wasn’t traditional picnicking weather or tell him that he’d actually been looking forward to visiting the tea room solely as an excuse to reduce the amount of time they spent outdoors. Instead, he reached out and took the picnic hamper from Aziraphale, and with a wide sweep of his other hand, gestured toward the Bentley. 

“Yeh, sure Angel" he said lightly, “whatever you want.” 

In Crowley’s opinion, if there’s one thing worse than walking outside in cold weather, it’s standing in one spot in cold weather because you are stuck in a bloody line. 

The drive from London to Surrey had gone by in flash with Crowley taking the country roads at well over 120 kph, Aziraphale holding on for dear life the entire way. However, now that they had arrived at their destination, everything came to a screeching halt because apparently today was the day every primary school in the nearby area had planned their annual excursions to the Winkworth Arboretum. 

The front gate of the park was completely overrun with over-stressed teachers and hundreds of impatient, whining, squirming children. The energy in the air was absolutely chaotic. Clearly the staff were unprepared for such a huge influx of guests – it would take ages for the lot of them to make it through admissions. 

“Sodding hell!” Crowley swore through clenched teeth, his good mood left behind in the front seat of the Bentley. They’d only been out of the car for less than ten minutes and already his hands were stiff with the cold. He shoved his hands under his arms, his shoulders pulled almost all the way up to his ears and looked the very picture of absolute misery. 

Aziraphale’s attention was elsewhere. Being an angel, he was focused on sending out minor blessings to ease the difficult situation. A six-year-old hiding at the back of the group who had just wet himself and was bright red with humiliation suddenly found himself dry again. A four-year-old girl on her first ever field trip who was on the verge of melting down was distracted at the ideal moment by a butterfly that fluttered down to land on her wrist. Two little ones who were tussling and tumbled over onto the gravel path miraculously got up without so much as a scratch. 

Even with these small miracles the situation was still verging on madness. Irritation getting the better of him, Crowley muttered, “Well, if you’re going to do that you might as well take care of it all at once,” and with a wave of his hand, the children suddenly stopped fussing and began licking the absurdly sized lollipops that had appeared in their little hands. The adults were all extremely focused on their itineraries and somehow managed not to notice. 

“Those poor teachers,” Aziraphale said, emphatically “They’ll have their hands full once the all that sugar kicks in.” 

“Aah, they knew what they we’re getting into when they took the job,” Crowley replied with a dismissive wave. And then, under the angel’s reproachful gaze, he continued, “The children burn it all off and fall asleep on the bus trip home. Is that better?” 

“Much.” 

“Hn.” 

Several minutes later, with the line moving at a snail’s pace and his corporation starting to shiver, Crowley decided that he couldn’t stand in one spot for another moment. “Bugger this,” he growled and with a snap of his fingers, the young man at the turnstile suddenly waved for the two of them to come up to the front of the line for no reason, none of the other people in line minding whatsoever. Crowley started for the gate, pausing only to call back to Aziraphale, “You coming?” 

Aziraphale followed along and managed his guilt by miracling a considerable donation into the collection box as they passed it. 

The arboretum was as lovely as Aziraphale anticipated; the landscape was ablaze with the colours of the changing leaves, even set against the overcast sky, a tapestry of red maples and golden oaks. The autumn breeze caught the leaves, filling the air with a lovely rustling sound and carrying them swiftly to the ground. 

Aziraphale was chatting animatedly as they made their way along the path, the picnic hamper hanging from his arm, his other hand securing the handle in place. He seemed energized by it all, completely unfazed by the chill in the air, and was currently in the middle of a story about a particularly difficult customer who had rung the night before, asking after a rare edition of some old text. 

Crowley on the other hand was enjoying none of it. He was shivering now, the same breeze that shook the leaves sliced through his layers and left him feeling frozen inside. His nose was starting to run, of all the embarrassing things, and he was having a hell of a time trying to sniffle discretely. 

“She had the nerve to ask if I could send it in the _post!”_ Aziraphale said incredulously, still going off about that same customer. “I said that if she couldn’t be bothered to take the care and pick it up in person, she clearly wasn’t the right person for this book. She tried to make excuses, of course, but I told her that airfare from New York is a small price to pay and if she didn’t agree then she could jolly well find herself another bookstore!” 

Aziraphale continued on but Crowley stopped listening. His mind strayed away from the angel’s silvery voice until he heard nothing at all but the sound of his heart throbbing in his ears as his head pounded. He went on this way until he was pulled back to reality by Aziraphale calling his name. 

“Crowley!” he called in a way that told Crowley that the angel had been trying to get his attention for some time. “Are you quite well, my dear?” 

"Sorry,” Crowley snapped with a self-concious sniff. “It’s so f-fucking cold out here.” 

“Oh, it isn’t really that bad out!” the angel began dismissively[4]. “It’s nowhere close to freezing and, look, the roses are still bl-” 

“Oh! I _guessssss_ I’m wrong then,” Crowley hissed through clenched teeth, a red-hot flare of annoyance rising up from the pit of his stomach. 

“Please don’t hiss at me, dear,” the angel said smoothly, blue eyes darting up to meet his yellow ones. 

“Sorry,” Crowley muttered, looking away. He really _was_ sorry. He didn’t want to argue with Aziraphale, he was just feeling so uncomfortable. “Anyway, you just can’t feel it the way I do,” Crowley went on without skipping a beat. 

“The whole cold-blooded thing?” 

"Nah, you just,” Crowley took one hand out of his pocket and gestured vaguely at Aziraphale’s midsection, “You have more insulation than I do.” 

_“Excuse me?”_ Aziraphale’s face flushed and he stopped mid-stride. 

Oh shit. That was definitely not the right thing to say, but Crowley’s tongue seemed determined to rum away from him today. “W-well, you do!” Crowley blurted defensively, frustrated that he had somehow raised the angel’s ire. Then, before he could rein himself in, he continued in a mocking tone, “Sorry if I’ve _wounded your __priiiiide__.”_

Aziraphale gaped at him, his eyes betraying his hurt feelings. “You’re determined to be miserable today aren't you?” Crowley scoffed but Aziraphale carried on before he could get a word in. “You’ve been cross since we arrived. I don’t see why you agreed to come here with me if this is all so _un__pleasant_ for you!” 

_“__Aziraphaaaale__,__”_ Crowley groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. 

“You could have just said no,” the aforementioned angel said quietly in a sad voice. 

“No, I couldn’t!” Crowley countered, realizing how petulant he sounded but unable to rein himself in. He ran one hand over his hair, breathing rapidly. This was not going the right way at all! How did things fall apart so quickly? He couldn’t wrap his mind around it, his brain was frozen, was wrapped up in cotton, was on _fire._

Aziraphale was watching him, looking utterly baffled. “And why is that?” he demanded. 

“Because,” Crowley started. And he realized as soon as the word left his mouth that he didn’t have a good answer, or at least not one that he wanted to say out loud. He shouldn’t have come. He should have sent Aziraphale his regrets and stayed in bed. "This was a mistake,” he said in a choked voice, more to himself than to anyone else. “I shouldn’t have come out here with you.” 

At this, Aziraphale’s face fell and Crowley froze. The angel looked stricken. “What’s wrong, Crowley?” His voice sounded small. “Why are you saying such terrible things?” 

“You’re one to talk about saying terrible things, _ Mr. ‘I don’t even like you.’” _ There it was. It was out of his mouth before he even realized it, didn’t realize that it was still lurking around his mind until he said it. Crowley hadn’t meant to bring it up but too late now. 

A myriad of emotions crossed the angel’s face as Crowley watched, and then, much to his horror, Aziraphale’s face became blank. “You’re right,” he said quietly, his voice empty of emotion. “This was a bad idea. It would be for the best if we called it early, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Angel,” Crowley began, but he didn’t know what to say in order to take that look off of Aziraphale’s face so he let his voice trail off weakly, his hands shaking at his sides. 

Aziraphale nodded sadly and said, “I’ll find my own way back to London,” before turning and walking back the way they came. 

Despite his every impulse, Crowley let him go. 

1 This is involved slamming the door open, shouting _“Angel__,__” _and sashaying his way to the back room. 

2 Crowley was certain that if Aziraphale ever removed his bow tie, his head would fall off. Well, not really, but it was a funny thought. 

3The woman walking her dog across the street stopped dead in her tracks and stared for a moment before abruptly losing all interest and continuing on her way as if she hadn’t just witnessed a miracle.

4 Aziraphale was right. It was currently 12°C which is perfectly lovely for an autumn walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that their little spat doesn't last long. How could I keep these two apart? Please feel free to critique. Also, this is (clearly, I'm sure) completely unbetaed so if anyone wants to beta this for me please drop me a line. I'll try to get the next bit up in the next two days. Thanks for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It rains. Crowley breaks down.

The weather forecast had not predicted rain.

Crowley was certain of this fact because he’d made a point of checking the forecast for rain that very morning, first the overall daily forecast, then the 36 hour forecast, and then he even made a point of tapping on the hourly forecast button to see if there was even the briefest window of potential rain at any point in the day which he could use as an excuse to postpone the drive out to Surrey. There was no sign of rain on the horizon, no hint of any precipitation, no reason not to hang the laundry out on the line to dry. 

So when the booming crack of thunder sounded directly overhead, and the first bolt of lightning sliced its way across the dreary sky, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. _ “Of course!” _ He was in the middle of the woods, no angel, freezing his ass off, and now the sky was starting to _ rain on him. _ “This _ fucking _day!” 

Crowley refused to get wet, not on top of everything else, not today. He imagined the raindrops diverting themselves away from him, plummeting toward the earth and then changing direction immediately over him and continuing at odd angles to avoid landing on his uncovered head. Similarly, he imagined the rapidly growing puddles on the path before him parting like the Red Sea wherever he stepped as he made his way back to the car park. 

This worked for nearly a whole minute. 

It was at that point when his mind cleared enough to put together a thought. 

It wasn’t a complex thought. It was an obvious thought, really, and one that he would have come to a lot sooner if he hadn’t been so dazed before and thrown off by Aziraphale’s sudden departure and the dramatic beginning of the storm. 

When this thought entered his mind, it took over, knocking all other thoughts aside, filling his head until he could think of nothing else. It distracted him from the conscious effort it took to keep the rain off his head and out of his shoes. It stopped him from walking entirely. 

What Crowley realized was this: the storm was not a natural phenomenon. It had appeared so suddenly because, wherever he was now, Aziraphale was crying. 

This single thought left Crowley completely wretched because he was now, on top of getting rapidly drenched in the middle of some godforsaken woods, responsible for making Aziraphale cry. It all came down on him like a ton of bricks. He had been the cause of Aziraphale’s pain. He’d hurt his angel and there were no circumstances under which that was even remotely acceptable. 

Crowley’s hands were shaking in earnest now. He felt his stomach give a lurch and his mouth turn sour. This was not the way today was supposed to go, he thought. This was not the way today was supposed to go. Just a few minutes earlier Aziraphale was beside him, prattling on about his silly bookshop and his so-called customers who he almost never sold any books to and now he was somewhere, and he was crying, and it was _all his fault._

With a devastated yell, Crowley broke into a sprint, or as close as his serpentine limbs would ever come to sprinting and didn’t stop until he made it back to the Bentley. 

When all was said and done, the rain only lasted for a short time. It had come on strong but tapered off quickly and was cleared up after a few minutes. Crowley noticed the moment the drops stopped hitting the windshield of his car because he wasn’t driving it. He was sitting in the front seat, sopping wet and trembling with cold and something more, watching every tiny impact of water against the glass, every little rivulet running down and out of view. 

On the first day of the rest of their lives, after he and Aziraphale had switched places and then switched back, Crowley had been more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling, even during the 14th century. He’d been so drained in all measures; physically, mentally, occultly. He’d felt like he could crumble to the ground and sleep for years after the effort of holding himself together, and the Bentley when it was burning, and then stopping time. There had been so much to face without a moment to catch their breath. 

He’d felt like he could sleep for years but he didn’t. And the reason why was hard to admit. 

He didn’t go to sleep because of Aziraphale. 

If Aziraphale had known how he was faring, the angel would have sent him back to his flat in an instant to recuperate, but it wasn’t the thought of leaving him alone, of not being there to intervene in case of danger, of being deeply asleep while his naïve, fussy, ridiculous, brilliant, loving, beautiful angel landed in trouble that made it impossible for Crowley to stay away. 

It was another thought; what if, while he was asleep, Aziraphale came to realize that he preferred _ not _ to have a demon hanging around anymore now that the arrangement was no longer necessary? 

Crowley’s stomach lurched again, only this time he had mere seconds to swing open the driver side door before he retched and vomited bile onto the wet pavement beside the car. 

Afterward, Crowley sat back shakily and finally started the car. He didn’t want to stay here any longer, or in any one place. He took the wheel and held on tightly with both hands to try and stop them from shaking so hard and left the arboretum. 

The 1933 Bentley owned by Anthony Crowley was unique in all the world. Apart from being an antique vehicle in impeccable condition, it could move exponentially faster than a car of its kind should have been able to move, it had a glovebox with an unlimited supply of Valentino sunglasses, it turned every CD left inside of it longer than two weeks into a_ Best of Queen_ album, and it did not require petrol. 

It was this last fact that enabled Crowley to continue driving non-stop for five hours after he left the arboretum. Although, to be fair, Crowley had stopped _ actually _ driving the car several hours back. Now he wasn’t doing anything more than holding the steering wheel and staring vacantly ahead. 

The Bentley knew that something was dreadfully wrong with its demon. It didn’t know how it knew, it shouldn’t have been able to know anything, but it knew this. His grip on its steering wheel was all wrong, he was sitting too stiffy in his seat, he was breathing heavily and shivering despite its efforts to keep its interior comfortable for him. He had driven somewhere with their usual passenger and returned alone. 

He hadn’t moved in hours. 

The Bentley was fretting. It shouldn’t have been able to fret but it was fretting, nonetheless. Something was dreadfully wrong with its demon and there was precious little it could do apart from carrying him down empty country road after empty country road for as long as he needed it to. 

Eventually, the Bentley heard a sound which it shouldn’t have been able to hear. It sounded like Crowley was quietly weeping, a restrained sound, like he was being strangled. 

With the demon trembling in its driver’s seat, the Bentley did what it always did when it had something to tell Crowley; it played a Queen song. 

_ So dear friends your love is gone_  
_ Only tears to dwell upon _  
_ I dare not say as the wind must blow _  
_ So _ _ a love is lost, a love is won _

Crowley moved for the first time in hours, finally releasing the steering wheel to wrap his long arms around himself. He snatched off his sunglasses and tossed them haphazardly onto the passenger seat, the seat where Aziraphale would be if things hadn’t gone so utterly wrong. Then he pressed the heel of one hand against his forehead and sobbed out loud.

_ Go to sleep and dream again _   
_ Soon your hopes will rise and then _   
_ From all this gloom life can start anew _   
_ And there’ll be no crying soon _   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor sad unwell snek boi. I promise that things start to turn around next chapter. The song lyrics mentioned are from "Dear Friends" by Queen. As always, please critique. Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley goes stargazing, chats with a friend, and then wakes up a bunch of Aziraphale's neighbours.

By the time the Bentley rolled down Regent Street the traffic had thinned, and the sidewalks were clear of the usual flocks of tourists with only a few small crowds of humans still milling about. Crowley didn’t know exactly what time it was, having not glanced at his phone since that morning, but if he had to wager a guess, he would say it was at least 2:00 am, long after most of the local drinking establishments stopped serving. 

London, as always, was shining brightly despite the late hour, constantly lit up as every large city tends to be by storefronts, streetlamps and sconces, towering office buildings with thousands of windows that never turn off their lights even on holidays. Nearby Piccadilly Circus was flanked with massive electronic billboards that poured light into the intersection. Even the trees themselves were hung with fairy lights this time of year, some clever entrepreneur’s attempt to slip the holidays into the minds of potential customers in order to inspire an early start to their Christmas shopping[1]. 

It was nearly impossible to see the stars in the night sky from Crowley’s current vantage point, much different from the countryside he’d been driving through. 

Away from the brightness of London, once the thick cloud cover finally broke up just before sunset, he’d watched as each tiny point of light faded into view, hung on a cobalt velvet backdrop. Out there he could see each one twinkle in the distance, and he knew, as any artist knows, which ones he had lovingly created and gently, reverently put into place. He knew the order in which he had formed them, how each one had felt in his hands, and each of their names; not the names the humans gave them, the ones _he_ had given them long before the first human entered the Garden. 

It was both serene and troubling to look upon his creations, but even so, he had parked the Bentley at the edge of the Thames and watched as they came into and out of focus, swirling around the sky, shrinking until they nearly disappeared and then swelling until they filled his field of vision and even though they weren’t supposed to do that it was so beautiful that it made his chest hurt. 

After some immeasurable amount of time, Crowley finally untangled one hand from around himself and took hold of the steering wheel. “Right,” he said with a sniff, his voice rough from disuse, “time to go back, I think.” 

The Bentley obligingly came to life and together they made the long trip back to Mayfair. 

As his flat finally came into view, Crowley was not expecting to see a familiar face out front but there she was, thanking the driver that had just finished unloading her luggage from the boot of a taxi. ‘Ah,’ he thought as the Bentley slid into its usual spot. ‘She’s back today.’ 

Myrtle was the little old lady who lived in the flat below Crowley’s. Long ago the two of them had bonded over his antique car and since gotten into the habit of meeting once a week to carry up her shopping and then chat over tea. She had been away for a week visiting her daughter and son-in-law in Toronto and must have just gotten in from Heathrow. 

The demon unwound himself, feeling acutely the pain in his head and aches that had settled in his limbs as he moved from sitting to standing, and made his way over to the entrance. Without a greeting, he stepped onto the curb and began to collect Myrtle’s bags. 

“Oh, Anthony, luv! What are you doing out so late?” she said in surprise as he hoisted her other bag up into his arms. “Been off on a tear, have we?” she continued, slipping her pocketbook into her purse. “Nothing too _devilish,_ I hope!” 

She had, through close observation, deduced that he was not human, and told him as much, so Crowley felt it acceptable to explain his nature to her after finding out that his downstairs neighbor thought she was living underneath a vampire’s lair. 

“No, mum,” he replied with a weak smile and used his back to press open the lobby door, holding it open for her. 

Underneath the harsh LED lighting within, Myrtle summoned the lift before turning back to Crowley. “Now, I don’t mean to sound rude,” she began tactfully, “but you’re looking dreadful. Are you alright dear?” 

Crowley flinched away, a little perturbed that she had picked up on his misery. “Egh,” he dithered, “S’just, I had a bit of a rough day.” When the little old lady just looked at him silently, he went on. “Had a row with an old friend. Ended badly.” 

She nodded knowingly. “You mean the blonde chap that owns the bookstore on Oxford?” 

“Wot!?” Crowleys mouth dropped open, yellow eyes bugging out behind his sunglasses. “Ngk, w-yeah. H-how did you-?” 

Myrtle grinned, looking pleased as punch at his reaction. “Seen you two walking together in the park some time back. Thought you looked chummy.” 

Crowley was a little shaken, as one can feel when separate areas of their life unexpectedly cross over. He filed away this little revelation for another time; he just couldn’t deal with it right now. 

“Can I give you a wee bit of advice?” she asked, and he nodded, feeling unsteady. “If there’s one thing I learned, in 48 years of marriage, it’s this: don’t go to bed with your anger.” 

Crowley fought hard against the desire to sit right down on the floor. 

Myrtle continued, her voice kind and knowing. “It’s important not to drag out your disagreements. The longer a fight continues, the worse it’s going to get.” She reached out a hand and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Best not to waste time not speaking to one another, don’t you think?” 

Crowley nodded, worried that his voice would betray him if he attempted to speak. 

She smiled at him, the warm smile of someone who genuinely cares. “There’s a good lad.” 

When they reached her flat, Crowley put her luggage inside the door. Myrtle thanked him and then sent him on his way with a reminder to take two paracetamol and drink plenty of water to head off the horrible hangover he was sure to be saddled with come the morning[2]. 

Of course, when he reached the lift, Crowley hit the button for the ground floor. Myrtle was right; he and Aziraphale had wasted enough time not speaking to each other over the past 6000 years and, as they had recently come to understand, one never knows when the world might to come to an end. 

It took less than ten minutes to drive from his flat to the bookstore in Soho and in that time, he’d gone from confident to uncertain to tense. By the time he was parked outside of Aziraphale’s shop, he was completely anxious; his heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he couldn’t catch his breath. He felt like he was having an actual panic attack. 

Crowley pushed himself to get out of the Bentley, which had played songs of encouragement all the way from Mayfair[3], and made the walk up to the door through the cold night air. 

It was locked of course, it being 2:30 am, but that was no concern for Crowley who could open any door with a quick demonic miracle. 

...Except he couldn’t seem to get the hang of it just now. 

Frustrated, Crowley tried the door again and again to no avail. Aziraphale must have placed some kind of heavenly ward on the property to keep him out! 

_ “Buggering hell!” _ he roared, hammering on the door with his fist. “Aziraphale! Open the blasted door and talk to me! I know you’re bloody well in there!” 

A light went on in the upstairs flat across the road. From a few doors down a window slid open and a woman’s voice shouted at him to be quiet. 

_ “ _ _ Go fuck yourself _ _ !” _ he hollered right back into the darkness, the streetlamps creating starbursts that left hazy trails of light streaking across his vision. 

Crowley was seriously considering attempting to smash through the glass of Aziraphale’s front door with his fist when the angel appeared from out of the darkness in the back of his shop, eyes wide with shock. Crowley continued to pound on the door until it swung wide open and he was unceremoniously yanked into the shop by the front of his shirt. 

“Get your boyfriend under control, Fell, or I’m calling the cops!” the voice shouted once more. 

Aziraphale leaned out into the darkness. “My sincerest apologies!” he called back. “You won’t be disturbed again!” Then he shut the door and locked it. 

Meanwhile, Crowley had been talking since the split-second Aziraphale opened the door. “Angel, I’m sorry!” he began. “I-I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry for before!” He was taking deep gasping breaths, gulping for air. “I’m sorry I said what I said, I didn’t mean it and I shouldn’t to go to sleep yet. The little old lady downstairs said not to.” 

Aziraphale turned around to face him, eyes still blown wide and eyebrows drawn together, and he stared at Crowley without saying a word. 

Crowley rambled on, gesturing wildly in front of him with both hands, “I didn’t tell you, but I should have and then, then it started _raining_ and, with the new clothes and everything, and I didn’t know if you’d want me around anymore!” 

Aziraphale stepped toward him, still looking at him with that same expression. 

Crowley was beginning to run out of steam, the stress of the whole situation draining him and leaving him feeling hollow. Quieter now, he continued, his voice breaking under the strain. “I’m so sorry, Angel.” His legs were shaking horribly, and the room was beginning to rock back and forth. Crowley blinked wildly, his voice trailing off. “I-….I’m...eggh.” 

The next thing he knew, Aziraphale’s hands were placed on either side of his face, cool and dry and steady. “Crowley?” he asked, and he sounded frightened. “What’s happened to you?” 

Crowley was overwhelmed by Aziraphale’s sudden closeness, the feeling of his soft hands held against his cheeks, and then one ice-cold hand pressed against his forehead. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed, in a very small voice, “Ngk, I’ve ruined everything.” 

Aziraphale’s expression softened then, his eyes full of compassion. “Oh, my dear boy,” he said gently, “You haven’t ruined anything. Absolutely nothing.” He reached up and took Crowley’s sunglasses off, placing them carefully on top of a nearby stack of dusty novels. “Everything is going to be just fine now.” 

Crowley shook his head, making the room tilt and spin even faster. “I hurt you,” he insisted, vaguely aware that the angel was stripping him out of his coat and still-damp sweater. “I know I did.” He was still gasping, still unable to draw a full breath. His chest was _ burning. _

“That wasn’t your fault,” Aziraphale assured him. “You tried to tell me. I really should have been paying closer attention.” Then he slipped one arm around Crowley’s waist and steered him carefully toward the stairs. “Come along now,” he said in the same voice one might use when talking to a small child. “It’s time to put you to bed.” 

Crowley allowed himself to be led, though he whined, “I just got here though!” 

The angel chuckled warmly. “Not your bed, dearest. Let’s get you settled in upstairs. I have the feeling you’ll be here with me for some time.” 

“Oh,” Crowley muttered vaguely as he began the ascent, supposed by Aziraphale’s strong grip. “That’s alright then.” 

1\. Crowley wasn’t sure if this idea came heaven or hell. It really could have come from either side. 

2\. From the way he was swaying in place and his normally fair complexion flushed, Myrtle figured that he was completely wasted, the poor heartbroken thing. 

3\. First Don’t Stop Me Now, and then You’re My Best Friend, and then part of We Will Rock You. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for Crowley's friendship with the little old lady from the flat was taken from Mischievous_Misfit's fic "The Little Old Lady on the Floor Below" at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20683250
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your encouraging words! Sorry for being so mean to the snek. Next chapter should be out in the next day or two. Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley burns. Aziraphale frets. They make a bit of a mess in the bathroom.
> 
> There is a point of view switch just for this chapter for obvious reasons. It would be a very short, very incoherent chapter if I wrote it from Crowley's point of view. XD

The odd bookstore on Greek Street, A. Z. Fell and Co, Purveyor of Fine Books to the Gentry, was known to keep exceedingly odd hours – the sun-bleached sign hanging in the front window was so difficult to follow that it didn’t impart any information at all and left interested passersby scratching their heads. On any given day, the chances of making it inside the shop’s front door were slim; the odds of actually purchasing one of the many rare books within, infinitesimally small. Still, Aziraphale had committed all those years ago to running a bookstore and selling books so he kept up the act even though he had zero intention of selling any of his precious books to anyone. 

In truth, as he hung a second sign in the front window beside the first, reading: “Regretfully, we will be closed for the time being due to personal circumstances,” the angel didn’t feel any regret whatsoever. It would be nice to have a break from the customers and their tendency to drop things and knock things over and bend the spines of his books until they nearly cracked[1]. Besides, he couldn’t have people trying the doorknob and knocking all day long when he had a very ill demon lying just upstairs. 

Aziraphale was trying his best to forget the unfortunate events of the day with a glass of red and Keats when he heard a rattling at his front door. At first, he ignored the sound with a roll of his eyes, assuming the culprit to be an intoxicated person who would soon move on when their housekey wouldn’t fit his lock. He’d been contemplating miracling the entire door away when the pounding began, followed immediately by a familiar voice hollering and cursing into the night. 

That was, of course, when he had come upon Crowley who was swaying and waving his hands about as he rambled on incoherently. Aziraphale had, at first, thought the demon completely out of his head drunk until he got a decent look at him in the light flooding in from the back room. He knew immediately that something was wrong beyond a case of overindulgence and his suspicions were confirmed the moment he touched Crowley’s skin. 

It had taken little encouragement to get Crowley into the bedroom that sat unused and covered in a layer of dust at the back corner of the flat. With a snap of his fingers the linens were clean and Aziraphale lowered Crowley carefully onto the bed, softly saying, “easy now, that’s it.” 

Crowley was trembling, and no wonder, his clothes were damp and sticking to his thin frame - had he sweated through them? Regardless, they had to go. Rather than peel his clothes off him like he was skinning a rabbit, Aziraphale employed another miracle and in the blink of an eye the demon was dressed in clean white flannel button-down pajamas. 

His mistake was immediately clear. “W-wha? _ Come oooonnnn ‘Ziraphale!” _ Crowley whined, holding up one shaky hand in protest. 

“No, you’re absolutely right,” he acquiesced and with a wave the fabric faded from brilliant white to black, no longer reminiscent of heavenly robes. “Better?” 

Crowley responded with a nod and a grunt and allowed Aziraphale to help him get settled under the covers. He pulled the quilt up over the demon’s shoulders and smoothed it out over him with nervous hands. 

Crowley was watching him with a glazed look, still breathing in rapid gasping breaths. As he leaned in closely to adjust the covers, Aziraphale could hear an unmistakable wheeze accompanying every shallow breath; pneumonia, he was sure of it. He had seen enough cases during his time tending to the sick with his angelic healing during war time and outbreaks. 

How very unfortunate that angelic healing would not prove useful with this patient. 

“Ngkh, ‘m dizzy,” Crowley muttered vaguely and closed his eyes with a wince. 

“You’re rather feverish,” Aziraphale replied gently. He reached out and placed the back of one hand against Crowley’s forehead once more, dismayed by the heat radiating off the demon. “We’ll have to bring your temperature down.” He reached over to a bowl of cool water that hadn’t been there a moment earlier and wrung out a flannel which he used to mop his patient’s face and neck. Crowley winced at the sudden cold sensation but said nothing, just watched him with half-lidded eyes. 

“How did this happen to you?” Aziraphale wondered aloud. Drops of water trickled down Crowley’s temples and soaked into his hair. 

“D’know,” Crowley said with a bit of a shrug. Then, after a moment of consideration, he added, “I mean, m’not sure.” He paused, swallowed, and admitted in a quieter voice, “Haven’t been feeling right for a while now.” 

“What?” Aziraphale paused in his ministrations and focused on Crowley’s glassy eyes. “What do you mean?” 

Crowley squirmed uncomfortably, looking anywhere except at the angel’s face. “Jus’, like this, but less.” His already flushed face was turning, if possible, a deeper shade of red. 

“Crowley, how long have you been feeling unwell?” 

There was a long pause before he responded. “...Almost since we swapped back.” 

Silence stretched between them for a long moment as Aziraphale absorbed that piece of information. His mind was overcome by a rush of possible explanations, none of them good, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to dissolve on the spot into a very unangelic fit of hysteria. 

Instead, he whispered, “Ok,” and then folded the flannel and placed it carefully on Crowley’s forehead, lifting fiery red lock out of the way. “There now,” he said softly, one hand ghosting over the demon’s hair as he fought the urge to card his fingers through the thick lot of it. “I don’t have anything to give you to bring the fever down just now and the shops are closed so this will have to do.” 

“S’ok,” Crowley murmured, letting his eyes slide shut once more. And then, a moment later, “thanks.” It only took a moment before his breathing evened out and Aziraphale knew that he had fallen asleep. 

Throughout that entire night, Crowley slept deeply. Aziraphale brought a chair into the room and stayed so he could be close by to aid him, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Even so, many times over the long hours he removed the flannel from Crowley’s head and freshened it in the cool water, returning it to his brow ever so gently each time so as not to wake him. It was reassuring to see Crowley sleeping so peacefully; except for the compress on his forehead one might not realize that he was ill, just drifted off to sleep in Aziraphale’s bed.

Aziraphale had thought many times before about Crowley falling asleep in this bed, but under very different circumstances. However, this was not an appropriate time to dwell on those thoughts. 

Instead, he pondered the possible explanations for Crowley’s illness and what to do next. Given the timing of it, it was impossible not to assume that this was a nasty parting gift from hell or a side effect of the trick they had played on their respective head offices. Even so, regardless of the cause, he figured his best bet was to treat Crowley’s fever and hope that it resolved naturally. If it didn’t, well, that was a bridge they would have to cross when they got to it. 

When the morning light grew strong enough to cast a rosy glow into the room, Aziraphale posted a sign in the bookstore window and telephoned the nearby chemist for some supplies[2]. He thought perhaps he should do some tidying around the place seeing as Crowley was asleep, maybe reshelf some books that people had decided against purchasing[3], but in the end he wound up back in the chair beside the bed, alternating between trying to read and listening to the demon’s labored breathing. 

Twenty minutes later, the delivery arrived in the form of a small paper bag with several bottles of medication[4] as well as instructions from the chemist. Aziraphale read them intently along with the labels on the bottles. According to the instructions, Crowley could have both ibuprofen and paracetamol to reduce his fever and they could expect the medication to take effect within an hour. He measured out the correct dose for Crowley and collected a glass of water. 

Crowley hadn’t moved at all during time he was downstairs. Aziraphale stood over the sleeping demon, looking for any sign of distress but there was only the steady rasping sound of his breathing. 

The angel watched for some time, taking in the high patches of colour on Crowley’s cheeks, his lips parted slightly, ginger eyelashes fluttering as his eyes slid underneath their lids. Without thinking, Aziraphale reached out and ran the backs of his fingers over one overheated cheek and failed to completely bury the thrill that rose within him at the touch of his skin. Even like this, Crowley was beautiful. He had always been remarkably, impossibly, ineffably beautiful; the long line of his body, the fluid way he moved, hair red and wild as flame that slipped so smoothly now between his fingers, golden eyes a mystery kept locked away behind black lenses. Aziraphale could ruminate on Crowley’s body for hours. 

The demon didn’t stir at his soft touches; he seemed to be sleeping so peacefully that it seemed wrong to wake him to swallow the pills. With one last pass of his fingers through that irresistible hair, Aziraphale returned to his vigil at Crowley’s bedside and thought of better times; Crowley draped haphazardly over the threadbare couch in his sitting room, drunk and laughing loudly, his wine glass held with the barest touch of his long fingers. Crowley standing at the edge of the pond in St James Park as he feeds the ducks, scolding them for bad manners and for crowding his boots. Crowley sitting next to him in the darkness as they pass a bottle back and forth between them, his voice so steady and sure when he says, “we’re on our own side.” 

“Nnn. Nghk. Ang’l.” 

“Hm?” Aziraphale was pulled from his musings hours later by the sound of Crowley’s sleep-drunk voice. “Crowley, are you awake?” A wave of relief settled over him – surely this must be a good sign if Crowley was already awake. He’d expecting the demon to sleep for days at least! He moved to the bed and looked down into Crowley’s face and immediately froze. 

“...A-Ang’l. Wher’re you? Ang’l.” 

The sense of relief that had come only seconds ago faded as soon as he laid eyes on Crowley whose eyes were open but fever-bright and unfocused, the sclera vanished completely under shimmering gold. With a sinking feeling, Aziraphale reached out and felt Crowley’s forehead. 

He was absolutely _ burning. _“Oh no.” Aziraphale sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over Crowley, stroking his scalding hot cheek. “Crowley!” he called sharply. “Crowley, can you hear me?” 

But Crowley didn’t show any sign that he could hear him at all or see him for that matter. His focus darted from one place to another like he was desperately searching for something invisible. “Nnnng, ‘Ziraphale!” he cried, louder now. 

“I’m right here, Crowley, I’m right here beside you!” he insisted, but Crowley couldn’t hear him, and the angel watched in dismay as the demon’s yellow eyes welled up and tears began to slide down his cheeks. 

Acting quickly, Aziraphale pulled back the covers and unbuttoned Crowley’s shirt. With the help of a miracle, he began applying cold compresses to his fevered skin to try and cool him down, on his forehead, under his arms and at the back of his neck. Crowley screwed up his face and winced but otherwise showed no sign of knowing anything of the world around him. 

Aziraphale berated himself as he worked fruitlessly to bring down Crowley’s fever. He been so sure that it was right to leave him asleep. He’d been so sure of a lot of things lately but if the events of yesterday morning had proven anything at all it was that he had truly terrible judgement, just the _worst. _

The compresses grew warm alarmingly fast. Aziraphale dipped them over and over again into the basin of water and replaced them but there was no change – Crowley's skin was red and dry and oh so hot and he went on slurring and crying out deliriously. 

There was one more thing Aziraphale knew to try and he prayed to God that it would work although he doubted very much that She was listening at the moment. With a snap of his fingers, the bathtub down the hall began to fill with tepid water and, with a wave of his hand, Crowley was stripped down to his underwear. Aziraphale gently lifted Crowley into his arms and cradled him against his chest, holding his burning head against his shoulder with one hand when it lolled to the side, and carried him into the washroom. 

As they stood before the tub in the small room he said, “I'm so very sorry for this,” to the shivering demon in his arms, speaking over the noise of the still-running tap. Then he lowered Crowley into the water. 

If you’ve ever tried to give a cat a bath, then you can imagine what happened next. 

Crowley’s reaction was immediate. The moment he broke the surface of the water it was as though he’d been given a shot of adrenaline. His eyes snapped wide open, his body stiffened, and he _screame__d_ like a bat out of hell, spitting and hissing an impressive selection of curse words from different languages, some of them obsolete. Aziraphale was stunned by Crowley’s intense response to the water but he had to snap out of it quickly because the demon began trying to climb out of the bathtub. 

Aziraphale reacted quickly, taking hold of Crowley’s shoulders to keep him in place, and tried his best to console him. “Crowley, please! Calm down! It’s ok! It’sssaaaAAAAGH! _Crowley, no!__” _A snap of his fingers and a quick miracle turned off the water to the entire flat and put a quick end to the torrent of water that was gushing out of the wall where the faucet used to be, drenching both of them and most of the bathroom. 

Crowley looked absolutely feral with his teeth bared and his pupils were blown wide. He scrambled to grab at the edge of the tub, splashing water every which way as he flailed about, shouting at the top of his voice, _“__Get of__f me! __Let me go!__’ They’re_ _going to burn him!_ _They’re going to burn __my angel__!_ _Azirapha__aa__le__!”_

It was then, faced with the rapid flooding of his upstairs flat which was certainly going to soak through the floor and into the bookshop below and the very real possibility of getting his eyes clawed out by a soaking wet delirious demon, that Aziraphale realized what was happening. 

In Crowley’s fever-addled mind, he thought he was in hell and he thought that he was at his own trial and he thought that he was drenched in holy water which would certainly destroy him completely if it was true and really, Aziraphale should have anticipated this reaction and it just went to show yet again that he had awful judgement, simply awful! But that wasn’t the thing that jolted through him like a bolt of lightning. 

The thing was, Crowley wasn’t fighting so hard that he ripped the plumbing out of the wall because he was trying to save_ himself. _ He wasn’t screaming like that because he thought _ he _ was about to disappear forever. He had cried out, “ Aziraphale .” He had called him, “ _ my _ angel.” 

_Well, how about that! _

“...Oh, oh my dearest boy!” In a rush of affection, and no small amount of disregard for his personal safety, Aziraphale caught Crowley up in his arms, drew the struggling demon to his chest, and pressed a kiss to his fevered brow. 

It was awkward; the edge of the tub was pressing into his ribs, his knees were slipping in the puddles on the tiled floor, and the heat radiating off of Crowley’s forehead served as a constant reminder that all was not as it should be, that this was not the way he had planned to kiss Crowley for the very first time. 

But even so. 

When he broke the kiss and pulled away, Aziraphale realized that Crowley had stopped fighting. The demon’s eyes were still bright with fever, but they seemed lucid and were fixed on his own. “...Nnng,” he groaned, his voice rough from screaming, “...I, A-Angel?” His relief was made plain in his voice. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered eagerly. He lifted a shaking hand to push the dripping hair from Crowley’s face. “Yes, I’m here, Crowley. Everything is ok.” 

“Oh. Oh, thank Ssssssomebody!” Crowley rasped, and then his face crumpled, and he ducked his head back down against Aziraphale’s chest, both of his hands fisted tightly into the fabric of his sodden waistcoat and began to shake as great sobs racked his body. 

Feeling himself pulled over the edge of the bath in Crowley’s grip, Aziraphale gave in and slid into the lukewarm water fully dressed, shifting them both so Crowley was held in his lap. He held Crowley there as he coughed and wept into his chest, running his fingers through damp red hair, and all the while he said consolingly, “I am right here with you my dear. I am not going to leave you. We are both safe.” 

Aziraphale held Crowley in the water for a long time after the fever dropped and he drifted off again, repeating in the same soothing voice, “I’m never going to leave you, Dearest. Never again.” 

[1] One time, while Aziraphale had been distracted by trying to talk a customer out of purchasing a first edition Thoreau, a young man managed to slip into the shop with a rather large dog and upon seeing the beast inside his precious shop, he had, as Crowley later described it, thrown a full-on conniption fit. The man, his dog, and the customer left and never returned, much to Aziraphale’s relief and Crowley’s amusement.

[2] The chemist didn’t make deliveries but on this one occasion they felt strangely inclined to do so. 

[3] With a great deal of influence from Aziraphale. 

[4] Aziraphale figured that using miracles to obtain these items would draw too much of the wrong kind of attention and he really didn’t need curious angels investigating when he had a feverish demon in the upstairs bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if anything here doesn't work. I typed it up in the spare bit of time I had today between wrangling my kids and making dinner. (Happy Canadian Thanksgiving btw.)
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading and for commenting. Every comment makes my little heart glow!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley panics. Aziraphale brings him tea. They finally let the cat out of the bag.

Sometime later, as Crowley gradually regained consciousness and became aware of the world around him again, he realized that something alarming had happened. 

He was not in his own bed. This bed was all wrong. Crowley found himself wrapped up in soft white cotton where there should be luxurious silk. He felt the weight of what must be several thick blankets piled over him, creating a dense layer of warmth. It was a far cry from the single alpaca wool blanket that was spread over his own bed – anything more than that would ruin the aesthetic of the space. 

This is not the part that was alarming. 

The alarming part was that he was not alone in the bed. 

It was alarming for several reasons. To begin with, he had not started out with anyone in the bed and now there was someone there, someone soft whose chest he was currently using as a pillow and whose hand was draped lightly over his forehead. 

Waking up to an unexpected bedfellow would be unsettling for anyone, but it was especially unsettling for Crowley who had never, ever, in his very long existence slept with anyone[1]. Sleep had always been a solo activity, one that he used as an escape from the world and besides, there was only one being in existence who he would even consider sleeping with[2] and Aziraphale had never shown any interest in sleeping at all! 

And _Aziraphale_ was the very being who Crowley was currently using as a very soft and warm pillow! 

Crowley’s yellow eyes snapped open as wide as his lids would allow, which was surprisingly wide, giving him the appearance of a startled cat. And then, because he simply couldn’t think of anything else to do, Crowley began to silently panic. 

He didn’t move a muscle and he didn’t make a sound, although it was incredibly loud inside his mind with his inner voice screaming, “SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITWHATTHEFUCK!HOW?HOW?SHITSHITSHIT-” and so on. He also thought he remembered the cool press of lips against his forehead, which seemed insane, but as much as he tried to push the idea from his mind it refused to be forgotten. 

Taking a chance, he glanced upward toward Aziraphale’s face only to find his view obstructed by a leather-bound book cover. Of course, the angel was reading. The angel couldn’t just go to sleep for once so he could panic without the fear of being caught panicking at any moment! That would be too damn convenient! 

Just then, it occurred to Crowley that, if he wanted to avoid giving himself away before he had the chance to calm down and put together a plan, he should probably _ resume breathing _ although probably not very fast, just normal slow sleeping person breathing. 

So, he drew a breath. 

And then his traitorous lungs seized up and, before he could stop himself, Crowley launched into a massive coughing fit. 

So much for not giving himself away. 

“Oh! Crowley!” Aziraphale cried. The book was forgotten and dropped in a very un-Aziraphale-like manner to the wayside in favor of reaching out for the demon beside him who had pushed himself up and was turned away, leaning over the side of the bed. Crowley was vaguely aware of the angel’s hands on him, keeping from tipping forward off the mattress while he hacked and wheezed and eventually retched and dry heaved. One of the angel’s arms encircled his chest while the other hand cupped his forehead. Aziraphale held him through the fit, constantly speaking reassurances, not recoiling even when the demon finally vomited blood-tinged phlegm onto the floor. 

When his thankfully empty stomach finally settled down, Aziraphale gently lowered him back down onto the bed. With the last shred of his dignity having sailed out of his mouth and pretty much nothing left to lose, Crowley leaned back into the pillows, sweating and breathing heavily, and said in a voice so gravelly that it barely sounded like his own, “....Y’know, sugar doesn’t actually do that.” 

“What?” was Aziraphale's somewhat frustrated reply. He could not have looked more dumbfounded if he tried. “It doesn’t do what?” He reached out to feel Crowley’s forehead, seemingly thinking that Crowley was still lost to delirium. 

“Make kids hyper,” Crowley insisted. Their conversation about the children at the front gates of the arboretum had been the last conversation they’d had before everything went to shit and he wasn’t sure that the angel would be able to follow him back there, but he could think of nothing else to say. “Humans think that sugar makes kids go crazy but that’s not true.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale slid a hand under the demon’s neck and paused for a moment as he gauged the temperature there. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeh, it’s” Crowley stopped to cough a few more times. “Well, like, think about it. When do kids get a lot of sugar?” Aziraphale looked thoughtful and Crowley doubted that he was actually considering his question but at least the angel was playing along. “At birthdays and holidays, and it’s mostly the parties the humans throw that make kids go bananas. The sugar has nothing to do with it.” 

“Interesting,” Aziraphale replied. He gave a wave of his hand and Crowley assumed the mess he’d made on the floor was just erased from existence. “I thought that your lot influenced it that way.” 

“No.” The cloth that had fallen from the back of his neck when he sat up to cough was dipped into cool water and placed onto his forehead. “No, we’re responsible for the whole rotting your teeth thing. Er, sucking candies, they’re one of ours. Lollipops. Piss a lot of parents off, cost them thousands of quid in dental bills but that’s about it.” 

“Huh, imagine that.” 

Aziraphale fussed over the blankets and cajoled Crowley into swallowing some bitter tasting pills. Then the angel slid off the bed and vanished into the hall, struck by the idea that what Crowley needed was some nice hot tea with lots of honey and lemon for his throat[3]. 

When he returned a few minutes later with the tea Aziraphale handed it over and then found his way back into the bed and stretched out in the spot beside Crowley. “There you are,” he said congenially. “Give that a go.” And then a moment later, when Crowley made no move to drink, “I know you’re not a big tea drinker, but it wouldn’t hurt you to just tr-” Aziraphale stopped mid-sentence and leaned in to examine the demon who had been staring at him with an odd expression. “Are you alright, dear? Are you going to be sick again?” He placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Wha- N-no!” Crowley blurted as he tore his gaze away. “No, it’s not that. I- Ngk.” He looked down into the mug in his hands, watched for a moment as steam rose steadily from the tea and disappeared into the air. “Y-you got into the bed,” he said abruptly. 

Aziraphale looked stunned and then sheepish. “Yes, I um,” he started explaining, “well, that is, you ran a very high fever last night and it wasn’t coming down, so I had to put you into the bath.” 

A hazy memory drifted to the surface. “Err, did I rip the tap out of your wall?” 

“Oh yes! But don’t worry about all that,” he said with a dismissive wave of one hand. “No lasting damage.” 

“Ah.” Crowley looked up and watched Aziraphale with glassy yellow eyes. 

“Anyway," he continued, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his waistcoat, “you reacted quite badly to it. The bath, I mean. So, to keep you in the water I had to, well...” Another pause. “Climb in with you and hold you there.” 

“Oh.” 

“And then after some time your fever dropped and you drifted off and,” Aziraphale swallowed, looked away, and then lamely said, “I-I-I just didn’t want to wake you. So I brought you back here and...it seemed like the best way to keep you asleep at the time! So rather than jostle you about I...laid down on the bed with you to let you sleep.” He glanced back over, cheeks absolutely scarlet, and said quietly, “That’s what happened.” 

Crowley wondered exactly how, in over 6000 years, Heaven had not caught on to their _ fraternizing _when Aziraphale was such a completely terrible liar. He drew a breath and said, “Nuh-no, I meant,” he nodded toward the spot on the bed where Aziraphale was currently stretched out so close to his side that their bodies were nearly pressed together. “Just now. Again. You got back into the bed. With me.” What explanation did the angel have for that? 

Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s eyes darted around his face and then around the room, looking like the proverbial deer in the headlights and he felt a burning frustration building from deep inside of him, spreading through his body, causing his hands to tighten into fists and his jaw to clench. Surely, Aziraphale was searching for an excuse, something innocuous to explain everything away. Was it really so impossible for the angel to admit, even here with only the two of them as audience, even now after heaven and hell had left them to their own devices, that he cared? That he loved him at all, not even in the way that Crowley had ached for over the millennia, but as a friend? 

Crowley felt certain that as soon as he heard whatever Aziraphale had to say next, he was going to burst into flames and then discorporate. 

But instead, the most amazing thing happened. 

When Aziraphale looked back at Crowley he wore a watery smile. “You see,” he began, his voice trembling ever so slightly, “I had just the beastliest thought.” Crowley felt his corporation’s heart begin to pound in his chest. “I thought that you might not ever wake up again.” The angel’s large blue eyes were welled up with tears and Crowley felt once more like he would discorporate, but for a completely different reason now. Without looking away from Aziraphale, he placed the mug of tea onto a table that hadn’t been there a moment before, and then he watched in utter amazement as the angel took one of his hands in both of his own. “And I admit, I couldn’t bring myself to let you go earlier and I’m sorry if it was wrong of me. Only I just-” A single tear dropped from his lashes and rolled down his cheek. “I just couldn’t bear it if I lost you now, my dearest boy, after everything we’ve been though! I just_ couldn’t!__”_

After that, nothing could have held Crowley back from reaching out and pulling Aziraphale into his arms. 

For a very long time, the two of them laid together in Aziraphale’s bed, long enough for the room to fade from bright daylight into the glow of late afternoon, and not once did they loosen their grip on one another. Aziraphale had wept, his face pressed into the fabric of Crowley’s pajamas, while Crowley petted his impossibly downy hair and murmured, “don’t cry, Angel, everything will be alright now,” and thunder rumbled outside of the bookshop. Then, Aziraphale held his face in his soft hands and pressed kisses onto his too-warm cheeks and forehead and neck and Crowley couldn’t help but grin like a fool, chuckling with a happiness that he never thought possible. The angel kissed him, chastely but lovingly on the mouth and Crowley wanted more. 

Well, that is, he wanted to want more. If only he wasn’t so ill! Crowley wanted to stop time and live in the moment forever, but he was still quite feverish and having a difficult go of keeping his eyes from drifting closed; every time he blinked it became all the more difficult to open them again. 

Aziraphale took notice and, smiling that bright angelic smile of his, said fondly, “go to sleep, dearest.” 

“Nuh, don’t want to,” he slurred, sounding very much like a small child who doesn’t want to stop playing to take their nap. “Not now. We sssstill have rather a lot to talk about, I think.” 

“We do, and we will talk about everything when you wake up.” The soothing feeling of the angel’s hand rubbing up and down his back eased the last vestiges of tension out of his body, replacing it with a warm heaviness that pulled him gradually back down to sleep. “We have all the time in the world now. Close your eyes and dream about whatever you like best.” 

And in Crowley's dreams, the angel's kisses we're anything but chaste. 

  1. Literally or figuratively. 
  2. Again, literally and figuratively. 
  3. The fact that Crowley responded with a loud, “Blegh!” did nothing to persuade him otherwise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the lovely comments! I'm thinking there will be one more chapter to this and maybe an epilogue.
> 
> I'm planning out next fic so if anyone has a request you can find me on Tumblr at aknightofthe7kingdoms. Thanks for reading! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley heals. They bicker and make plans.

Crowley slept for days

It was a deep, dreamless sleep that pulled him down, shutting out all awareness. He didn’t move a muscle when Aziraphale extricated himself from the bed or any of the times when the angel laid the back of his hand gently against his forehead. For the first time in weeks he knew only darkness and warmth and as close to a sense of peace as he’d known since Falling. It was almost five days before he finally opened his eyes again, slowly rising from out of the murky depths of sleep. His corporation felt leaden, heavy under the weight of contentment, and fatigue and several thick blankets and for a long while he considered just letting himself drift back under. 

Instead, he stretched, his joints popping noisily in protest after their long respite, yawned drowsily, and sat up. The sun was streaming in through the grimy panes of the upstairs window, the pale light of mid-morning. He could hear the faint sounds of traffic and the voices of passersby, the human world that kept on turning because of him and the angel. 

The angel who couldn’t bear to lose him, who wept at the very idea. 

Crowley stood, moving experimentally as the numbness of sleep faded from his corporation. His head and muscles still ached, and the room was far too chilly for comfort, but it was not nearly as severe as it had been; the dizziness was thankfully a thing of the past. Crowley reached back onto the bed and drew the topmost quilt around his body before making his way barefoot down into the bookshop to look for his angel. 

The creaking of ancient floorboards must have alerted said angel because he was near the bottom of the stairs, both hands fluttering nervously in front of him. “You’re awake!” 

“Guh. Sort of,” Crowley muttered in a gravelly voice as he descended, Aziraphale hovering close by but keeping a familiar distance. “Still coming out of it.” He padded over to the couch at the back of the shop that he had long ago claimed as ‘his spot’ and dropped like a stone, sending up a cloud of dust into the air when he landed. He settled himself in and pulled his feet up so that the length of his body was completely wrapped up in the quilt. 

Aziraphale was perched on the armchair opposite, looking his usual prim self with his hands folded in front of him. He watched silently as Crowley arranged himself, and then asked, “How are you feeling?” 

The demon considered the state of his corporation. “Ehhh, not great but better than before.” 

“Can I get you anything? Some tea perhaps?” 

Crowley declined, feeling hesitant to even bring his hands out from under the cocoon he’d fashioned himself out of the old blanket. “Nah, m’good.” He tried clearing his throat to get rid of the roughness of his voice but to no avail. And then, attempting to draw the fidgety angel into a conversation, he asked, “Did I miss anything while I was out?” A peculiar expression passed over Aziraphale’s face, one that was impossible to miss; he looked troubled and Crowley instantly worried. “Wot?” 

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s nothing really.” 

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” 

“It-it can wait.” 

“No, I don’t believe it can.” 

“We can talk about it w-” 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley snapped, foregoing the usual term of endearment. 

Aziraphale let out an exasperated sigh. “Alright then!” He gave Crowley a reproachful look that quickly faded. “I know you’ll think me a prat,” he began in a serious tone, “but I’ve had several days to think about, well, _our __involvement__.__”_ He waved his hand back and forth, a vague gesture indicating the two of them, and Crowley’s eyes grew wider. “And I don’t think it would be right for us to move forward before I say something to you.” 

Oh fuck. _“Our __involvement__?” _Crowley repeated and then pressed his mouth into a thin line. His memory of the past week was fuzzy at best but he was certain that, before he’d fallen asleep, things had been going quite well between them[1]. And now? Had it really only taken a few days for the angel to reconsider everything? Was that all it took for Aziraphale to revert to his former ideology, preferring to keep him at arm's length with the occasional meeting every few decades when he felt up for a lark? Disappointment settled over Crowley’s shoulders like another one of Aziraphale’s heavy quilts. “Go ahead Angel,” he muttered and waited for the hammer to fall. 

Aziraphale looked down at his shirt sleeve and fiddled with one of his cufflinks as he spoke. “The other day at the arboretum you reminded me of something I said to you that day at the bandstand.” He glanced up at the demon. “You know what I’m talking about.” 

Crowley nodded. 

“As much as it pained me to hear you repeat it,” the angel continued, still looking down, still spinning the cufflink between his fingers. “I realize now that I needed to hear it. To be reminded. And to know that it’s stayed with you ever since.” He looked up, his eyes full of regret, and Crowley suddenly understood where Aziraphale was headed. 

“You’re always so cool, Crowley,” the angel continued with a small smile. “I mean, you're irascible without a doubt but you never seem to be hurt by what people say, not _ that _ way. You never seem...sad.” 

Crowley felt, very strongly, that he would like to have his sunglasses on. 

“I mean,” Aziraphale continued, still fidgeting with that damn cufflink. “you were awfully distressed about your car when it combusted, but indignities seem to just slide right off you like... Like water off a duck’s back.” They both chuckled weakly. 

After a moment the angel’s face fell. “I realized that what I said to you, about not liking you, which _ wasn’t _ true my dear boy,” he added fervently, “it must have been so upsetting for you, even if you didn’t show it.” He paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “And then, I began to reminisce about other times-” 

“Oh no, no, Angel,” Crowley cut in hastily, slipping one hand out from his nest and holding it up in the universal sign to stop. “That’s not nec-” 

But Aziraphale held up his hands before him and patted the air in that way he always did when he was trying to be firm. “Please let me finish.” 

Crowley slipped his hand back under the blanket. 

Aziraphale paused for a moment, perhaps to gather his thoughts, before he carried on. “It sounds so ignorant, but I never realized that the things I said to you could be hurting you that way. I never thought about it...I’ve been thoughtless.” Aziraphale’s voice cracked on his last word and when he continued speaking it was thick with emotion. “I’m very ashamed to say it.” 

Crowley’s hand was out from under the blanket again, squeezed into a tight fist and pressed against his mouth. He wouldn’t interrupt Aziraphale again, would let the angel finish saying his piece, but damn if it wasn’t taking all his self-restraint to keep from contradicting him. 

“I’m so sorry, exceedingly sorry, for the way I’ve treated you.” His eyes were gleaming, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he could handle much more of this. He was dangerously close to behaving in a way that was very unbecoming for a demon. “If you can forgive me, I promise to be kinder to you.” 

A high-pitched keening escaped from Crowley’s throat before he could stifle it. Not trusting himself to speak just then, he nodded at Aziraphale and tried[2] to stop his eyes from welling up. 

“Is it ok if I come over to you?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly. 

Crowley nodded again. “’Course,” he replied in an embarrassingly strangled voice, his knuckles still pressed against his mouth. He watched the angel approach and sit next to him on the ugly blanket on the ancient couch, just as straight and proper as always with his hands folded and his fluffy white-blonde hair and his silly tartan bowtie and those sad blue eyes and how absurd was it that the kindest creature he had ever met was apologizing to him and promising to be kinder in the future? It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous! 

“Crowley,” the angel said softly, reaching out toward him tentatively with one hand. “What do yo- Oh!” Aziraphale’s train of thought was effectively derailed when Crowley tipped over on his side and dropped his head into the angel’s lap, his eyes closed tightly and the rest of his face hidden under the blanket. “What’s happened?” he exclaimed, “Are you alright?” 

Crowley said “mm-hmm,” because ‘Yes, I’m fine, wonderful actually, I’ve just haven’t experienced so much pure love since I fell out of heaven and it’s a little bit much for me to handle right now and it’s making me feel like my heart is exploding so I’m just going to lie here in your lap for a while if that’s ok with you’ was a bit more than he was able to manage. 

The poor flustered angel sat with his hands hovering over Crowley, looking like a deer in the headlights. “My dear boy, are you quite sure?” And when Crowley gave a tight little nod, he softly said, “right then,” and, after a moment’s consideration, gently lowered his hands placing one on the demon’s blanket-covered shoulder and the other on top of his flame red hair. “Is this ok?” One more nod and a shaky sigh from Crowley was enough to satisfy Aziraphale, and so they stayed that way for a long while with Aziraphale running one soothing hand up and down the length of Crowley’s arm, and Crowley taking refuge in the embrace of his angel until he felt composed again. 

Sometime later, Crowley rolled over and peered up at Aziraphale, emerging somewhat from his cocoon. “Hey,” he croaked. 

Aziraphale pushed the demon’s long bangs back from his forehead and smiled gently. “Are you better now, dearest?” 

“Yeah, s’just, y’know.” Crowley blew out a long breath. “Feelings.” 

“Ah. Yes, I understand[3],” said Aziraphale. He petted Crowley’s hair, weaving his fingers through the thickness of it. 

Crowley tilted his head to lay his cheek against the swell of Aziraphale’s belly, yellow slitted eyes still peering up into his face. “That wasn’t very responsible of you, ya know.” 

Aziraphale frowned, his fingers halting on their path through his hair. “Pardon me?” 

“Springing all of that on me like that,” the demon muttered with a sniff. “S’not very considerate of you.” 

“Steady on!” 

“I’ve been ill, y’know” Crowley whined with a pout. “Could have bloody well died!” 

Aziraphale was completely staggered. “Now see here!” he blurted, eyes wide and cheeks flushing pink, “I think you’ll recall that I didn’t want to discuss anything straight away but you insisted on calling me out so if anyone is to blame...what are you smiling about?” 

Crowley looked like the cat who ate the canary as he said with a smirk, “You know, it’s this kind of bickering that makes us such an adorable couple.” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, trying his best to sound scornful but unable to completely disguise his grin, “You wicked creature!” 

“I meant to mention; your phone was in your coat pocket and it rang so I took the liberty of answering.” 

Crowley nearly choked on the tea with honey and lemon that he was drinking[4]. “Eck! You what? Who was it? What did you say?” 

“Calm down please! It wasn’t a call from downstairs or anything. It was one of your neighbours. Said she went by your flat to check up on you and when you didn’t answer she thought you might have made it out to the _ bookstore.” _ The angel looked especially puffed up to be known by someone in Crowley’s private inner circle. 

Crowley tried very hard to look intimidating, which is hard to do when you’re tucked up in tartan quilt holding a cup of tea with honey and lemon. “You didn’t say anything, did you?” he demanded, pointing a finger at the offending angel. “What did you say?” 

“Nothing compromising,” he replied with a placating gesture. “Just that you were here and doing better than before. I couldn’t very well lie to her; she was concerned about you!” 

“No, I guess not,” Crowley muttered quietly. 

“She seems like a very sweet person. She’s invited us both back to her home for tea once you’re back in the pink. 

“Yeah alright,” he said, resigned. “She’s never going to let it go until she meets you now. Might as well rip the plaster off.” 

A few minutes and half a cup of tea later, Crowley gave a snort of laughter. 

“What is it dear?” 

“In the pink.” He grinned deviously, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds obscene.” 

“Crowley!” 

“No. No, no, no, no, no, I’m not wearing that.” 

“You’re being unreasonable. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it.” 

“No, there’s no way on Earth I’m going to put that-” He slammed on the brakes “You didn’t make that, did you?” 

“No, I b-” 

“That’s a God-awful ugly hat and I’m not putting it on!” 

Aziraphale bristled at his blasphemy, his insults, his stubbornness, the entire package really. “You are the most proud, vain creature! I can’t believe you place so much importance on superficial appearance!” 

“First of all, if that isn’t the _ vain _ pot calling the kettle black then I don’t know what is! Second of all, look at it, it’s stupid!” Crowley whined, waving one hand vaguely at the offending article. “It’s got a bobble on the top! It’s not even close to something I would wear! I mean, can you honestly see me wearing that hideous thing?” 

The angel relented a little. “I suppose not. It doesn’t really go with your current wardrobe.” 

“See? That’s m’point!” 

“...What if it was black and we got rid of the bobble?” 

“Ugh, _ Angel!” _

“I’m only concerned for your well-being, you foul fiend.” 

Crowley gave a sigh. “Yes, I know.” 

He was draped over the back of a chair, staring out a window facing Greek Street. The sun was streaming in through the filmy window, Dust motes drifted through the light, tiny specks of gold scintillating through the shop. Crowley’s reflection glimmered in the glass, his hair swept up in his usual style, cheeks finally free of the flush of fever, yellow eyes sharp and clear as they watched the people bustling along the sidewalk, dressed in coats and hats and gloves. 

All the trees he could see were completely barren of leaves. 

Aziraphale approached from behind and laid a hand on his shoulder. “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness,” he quoted Steinbeck. 

“I think the people living in Bora Bora find their lives plenty sweet without having to live though this misery,” Crowley groused. He placed one hand over the angel’s and turned to glance up at him. “Hey, why were you wearing new clothes that day? When I came to pick you up?” He didn’t need to be more specific than that. 

Aziraphale blinked, and then smiled abashedly. “It all seems foolish now. I had everything planned out, what I was going to say, all of it.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I was very well rehearsed.” 

Crowley uncoiled and rose to stand next to Aziraphale, his eyes never leaving the angel’s face. “Mmm?” he hummed his interest. 

“I had planned on telling you about, well, how deeply I care for you. How very much you mean to me.” A warm hand found its way into his own and Crowley held on tightly. “And that, although I’ve wavered in the past, I intend to leave all of that behind and be steadfastly devoted to you in the future.” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said fondly. He flushed at the gentle warmth in Aziraphale’s eyes and felt bereft when it vanished as the angel quickly composed himself, clearing his throat. 

“Hence the new clothes. It was all very symbolic and silly,” he said in a dismissive rush. “You must be so relieved that it didn’t pan out.” 

“No, no, not relieved,” Crowley replied in an uncharacteristically soft voice, the rush of affection he felt for his angel filling his chest until he felt like it would burst. “Quite the opposite really.” 

The two man-shaped beings stood together for some time, silently watching the world they had helped to save continue to turn, their hands clasped together 

“We could go back, y’know,” Crowley said wistfully. “Try again. I promise not to be ill this time. I’ll wear the ugly hat even.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale’s face lit up. 

“No, it’s far too hideous,” Crowley replied, smirking. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Even so, it wouldn’t be the same,” he thought aloud. “The leaves will all have fallen by now.” 

“Oh,” Crowley said, “Right.” He looked out at the world, the sky growing darker and days growing shorter with winter’s approach. 

“However, I hear the gardens there are simply exquisite in the spring.” 

Crowley’s gaze snapped back to Aziraphale whose beaming face was so full of love that all thoughts of cold and dark vanished. Without a word he lifted the angel’s hand to his mouth, placed a kiss across the backs of his fingers, and then allowed himself to be led away into the warmth of the bookstore. 

1The kissing had been a very strong indicator of this. 

2And failed. 

3He didn’t understand, but he was trying. 

4There had been an incident several days earlier involving an argument over the impact of alcohol on a recovering mortal body that ended with every drop of wine in the bookshop being consecrated and a great deal of sulking. Since then Crowley resigned himself to drinking whatever the angel handed him and had to admit, although not out loud, that it seemed to be helping him feel better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that I'll call this one finished. Thank you to everyone who has read and commented! I've loved reading every one of your messages. I'll be starting a new story soon. I have a few ideas but I an also very open to filling requests, especially H/C reqs so please feel free to find me on Tumblr, same username as Ao3 and leave me a PM.


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